Chapter 2 - A Retired Soldier Wants to Rest

Ivan had been waiting peacefully for the ending, thinking of nothing but escaping this godforsaken other world and enjoying a cold can of beer with some dried pollock. Only now did he realize that everything he had experienced was mere “backstory.”

And this game was neither a strategy simulation about surviving a brutal war against the Demon King’s army nor a classic RPG about a hero assembling a party to overthrow the Demon King’s tyranny.

No, it belonged to the “academy genre,” of all things.

That brought Ivan to his thirtieth year of possession.

* * *

St. Vasilisa Orphanage was one of the wealthiest orphanages in the kingdom.

Ordinarily, an orphanage needed to meet a few conditions to become wealthy. It might enjoy a favorable location within the capital’s administrative reach. Or it might carry the political significance of being “the first orphanage for war orphans” as a war-ravaged kingdom began to rebuild.

Add a director with connections among influential figures and high-ranking nobles, along with a few other qualifying circumstances, and one could, astonishingly enough, create that contradictory institution: a “wealthy” orphanage.

For the record, St. Vasilisa Orphanage met every one of those conditions.

“Hmm.”

Ivan frowned, rubbing the goose bumps that had risen along his forearms.

If his long military service had taught him anything, it was never to ignore the feeling that something bad was about to happen.

“Children, sprinkle some salt.”

“Yes!”

He let out a deep sigh as he watched the children run off, giggling.

It had already been four years since the Demon King died, yet the game still wasn’t over. Wasn’t there something wrong with an epilogue this long?

Was there another condition? Surely the ending requirement wasn’t some bullshit like “the hero dies of old age”? He wanted to get home sooner than that.

By this point, Ivan was desperately combing through his fading memories and diligently writing a list of “things to eat when I return to Earth.”

With all the desperation of a sergeant counting down the days until discharge.

Canned beer, dried pollock, Honey ButXer Chips, nachos dipped in cheese sauce, tuna mayo, kimchi stew.

Oh, damn it, kimchi stew needed about three more underlines. It had been thirty years since he last ate kimchi. Braised kimchi and stir-fried kimchi couldn’t be left out, either.

And every kind of alcohol except vodka and wine. Preferably something from Northeast Asia.

Live long enough among monsters who munched on fucking pickles and pickled mushrooms with their drinks, and even puffed rice started to sound good.

“Whew...”

Ivan trudged along listlessly, then suddenly stopped.

He could hear someone in his office, which ought to have been empty. An adult—and a well-trained soldier at that.

His slack eyes sharpened. Then he stepped forward carefully. This time, he didn’t muffle his footsteps, instead making them sound as natural as possible.

THUD, THUD.

He walked straight toward the wooden door bearing the director’s office plaque, deliberately presenting an unguarded front, as though he had noticed nothing.

‘One person.’

His senses were already those of an animal. Anyone who spent years getting knocked around in the Extermination Unit could pull off tricks like this.

The movement behind the wooden door abruptly stopped. Gauging the other man’s position, Ivan slowly reached toward his waist and bent forward slightly.

That way, even if his visitor fired a crossbow the instant the door opened, the bolt would miss his head. An old habit.

“It’s been a long time, sir!”

The unexpected guest called out brightly the moment Ivan turned the knob. It was a declaration that he meant no harm. Recognizing him by his voice, Ivan relaxed his shoulders.

When he opened the door the rest of the way, a soldier in an immaculate uniform was waving at him.

“Have you been well? Goodness, I really should have visited more often!”

“You should have come through the front gate.”

“Oh, come on. When have we ever worked that way?”

The soldier gave a short laugh and stepped back. His gaze briefly flicked across Ivan’s waist and sleeves.

“Your business.”

“Always in such a hurry! We should have some tea and catch up first!”

Despite his words, he took a small letter from inside his coat.

With a pristine white-gloved hand, he placed it on the table slowly and very carefully.

Fine paper. A high-quality wax seal.

And a chrysanthemum-shaped crest pressed firmly into it.

The instant Ivan saw it, he involuntarily recoiled from the table.

“Whoa, that’s lese-majesty, you know?”

“Why would Colonel Kirillovna want me...?”

“She’s the Palace Minister now. Besides, she was already a brigadier general when you retired, wasn’t she?”

“So why is she looking for me? If I remember correctly, when I retired, she specifically...”

“Yes. She told you to live quietly and stay out of sight. I’m amazed you took her at her word and left. Her Highness the Princess couldn’t eat for three days.”

Chuckling, he pushed the letter, which had been shoved to the far edge of the table, back toward Ivan.

“Just read it. A personal letter from Her Highness would fetch whatever price you asked at a memorabilia auction.”

“...”

Feeling as though he were dismantling a magical device on the verge of exploding, Ivan cautiously reached out and gingerly opened the letter, taking care not to crush the wax seal.

The envelope opened smoothly with a satisfying little pop. When the gold-threaded stationery came into view, his hands froze.

“What’s wrong? Her Highness might just be asking how you’ve been.”

“... As if.”

Elizaveta Kirillovna Krasilof. Or, by the slightly friendlier nickname she had earned when the war was at its height, “Iron-blooded” Liza. As if that woman would send an emissary merely to ask how he was doing.

She was more likely to coat the paper in poison.

Surely this wasn’t coated in poi—

“Oh, just read it.”

Even then, Ivan hesitated once more before finally mustering the courage to unfold the letter.

It revealed elegant handwriting as neat as type.

[Vanka, have you been well?]

He already wanted to stop reading. Ivan swallowed hard.

[I have heard news of you from time to time. You seem to be doing well. For the first few months, I was glad of it. Since then, not so much. Unfortunately, I am not doing well myself.]

Whoever was responsible for this woman “not doing well” was surely paying the price.

[Do you remember how hard we worked to tend our garden? I had hoped we could all have tea together, but you left without so much as a backward glance.

The days when we burned down demon settlements, established military administrations, and exploited the now “peaceful” demons? Of course he remembered.

Afterward, for a while, I thought this: Very well. Vanka, even without you, surely the garden we worked so hard to cultivate would not fall into ruin. Winter was over. Once the snow melted, the flowers would bloom. Then perhaps, one day, you might return, if only to look at the garden you had made.]

Ivan found himself muttering.

“Me? To the royal court? Why...?”

[But the seasons are turning, and winter is coming again, Vanka. The servants, grown complacent on full bellies, no longer care for the garden. No wildflowers grow in a garden overrun with weeds and beasts. A winter colder and quieter than the last is coming. One day, I noticed mistletoe covering a dying shrub.]

Only now did he understand the purpose of the letter.

Before reading the final paragraph, Ivan reflexively let out a long sigh.

[Vanka, my most trusted woodsman. Whatever you desire, I promise to repay you threefold. If the reward is insufficient, I will make up the difference with our friendship. If that still fails to settle the account, I will pay with our memories. The kingdom still needs your devotion. As it always has, and always will. With affection, Kirillovna.]

Only after carefully reading the short letter several more times did he press his fingers against his dry eyes and turn his head.

TAP, TAP, TAP.

For a while, he drummed his fingertips on the table, lost in thought.

“Your answer?”

“The situation first.”

“It’s rough. The military administration whines every day, begging to withdraw, and His Highness Crown Prince Alexander is itching to carve the country into five pieces and sell it off. Meanwhile, our ‘Great King’ just sits there without a word, as always.”

The man continued with a sneer.

“But surprise! You remember St. Jansk University, right? The international university they founded during the war.”

“What about it?”

“We got an advance copy of this year’s incoming student and staff lists. Care to take a look?”

He pulled out a notebook and handed it to Ivan.

“The Saint has taken a teaching position. A full-time professorship in the Theology Department. Now, skip all this... The students. Here we are. Quite a string of familiar names, wouldn’t you say?”

Isabelle, daughter of the hero Maximilien.

Oscar, son of the knight Gilles Vert.

Elpihera, daughter of the mage Veolgrin.

Esidisi, daughter of the Berserker Einar.

Lucia, disciple of the rogue Enrique.

And on top of that, Saint Patricia, newly appointed as a professor this year.

A picture-perfect lineup of “Hero’s Party members.”

“Of all things, our great former King saw fit to abolish the age restrictions for admission to Jansk University! He declared they’d accept anyone who passed the entrance exam, young or old, and now look where we are!”

St. Jansk University ranked among the finest institutions in all the United Kingdoms.

And this goddamn other world’s idea of an “elite university” paid no attention to its students’ ages.

Whether they were very young or very old, it opened its doors to anyone who met the same requirements: a fiendishly difficult entrance exam, an interview, a guarantor to recommend them, and so forth.

That was where the trouble began.

After killing the Demon King, the Hero’s Party had departed for their respective homelands.

Some became nobles, while others withdrew into seclusion. But they all shared one thing.

Every member of that party was a legendary hero back home.

That meant their every move could spark an international dispute. Especially where their children studying abroad were concerned.

“Our prince is trying to sell off the country, and goodness gracious, something like this happens right in the middle of the capital? What do you suppose comes next?”

If any one of them died—or even got hurt—this country was finished.

“What do you need me to do?”

“We’ve arranged a position on the staff. Not as a professor or a teaching assistant. A gardener. Universities have trees lining their paths too, you know?”

“...”

The man pointed to the list in his notebook and continued.

“Protect these kids until they return to their countries without a hair on their heads harmed. Just three years. Could be less if they drop out.”

By now, Ivan had worked it out.

Colonel Kirillovna... that is, Her Highness the Princess urgently needed an agent no longer on the military rolls.

Using an active-duty agent would leave a trail that the prince’s faction might discover. But she couldn’t simply pick any retired agent, either, since there was no knowing who had thrown in their lot with the prince.

And surprise: the perfect candidate happened to be tucked away near the capital.

A man whose loyalty was beyond question and whose abilities were proven. A man who had quietly retired into seclusion without the slightest involvement in politics, yet whose whereabouts were clear enough to contact him immediately.

That miraculous individual was Ivan.

Ivan had been quietly waiting for the ending, ready to return to Earth and chew, savor, and enjoy the glorious foods of modern civilization. At that moment, he realized something astonishing.

The Demon King was dead, but instead of the Hero’s Party reaching their “happily ever after” ending...

Against a backdrop of international chaos and ominous domestic politics, the world’s most prominent figures were scrambling to enroll their children in an “international university” that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere...

After thirty long years, a genre that practically any South Korean would recognize finally came to mind...

“Fuck.”

“... Pardon?”

Kim Seonwoo, dormant for so many years, abruptly awoke.

“Fuck. This was an academy story?”

“Sir...?”

The man stared at Ivan, breaking into a cold sweat.

Even during his active service, it had been rare to see him like this, venting such violent fury.

And, naturally, having known Ivan during those years, the man flinched and went rigid at the thick murderous intent pouring from him.

As he stood there sweating, trying to work out what on earth those words meant, Ivan squeezed his eyes shut. Struggling to suppress Kim Seonwoo’s seething rage, he spoke.

“Ivan Petrovich... accepts Her Highness’s command.”

‘Let me go home already.’

Three years.

He had waited thirty. What were another three?

Surely, if he waited just three more years, he would see the ending.

And that was how the academy acquired a gardener.